


Starcrossed (working title)

by Purple_Starflower



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 11:53:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16408001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purple_Starflower/pseuds/Purple_Starflower
Summary: Draco is drinking his problems away in a muggle bar, when she walks back into his life.Very much a WIP, will post more as I write.





	1. Chapter 1

He should probably stop, he knew as much. What was this, his seventh drink? Tenth? He'd lost count after the first five glasses full of whiskey had burned their way down his throat. The world was muted and blurry now, everything reaching him slow and warped, as if through a thick layer of honey - or another amber colored liquid, if you will. 

He let his head drop onto the cool and sticky wood of the counter, breathing the scent of lemon and stale tequila in through his mouth. 

Behind him, the bar was oddly quiet that night. There were fewer patrons than usual, and even those present seemed to be interested in spending the night sipping light beers from bottles and having whispered conversations by the pool table. The telly mounted atop the far corner was out of commission (due to god knew what reason), and sat in quiet witness to the happenings of the world. The usual crowd of noisy youth seemed absent today as well, and Draco felt something he never though he would in his entire life as a mortal on this plane. He *missed* them. Almost. 

Their noise was a good way to keep thoughts away. As annoying as it had been. 

He groaned against the wood of the counter, before lifting himself up off it and plopping his head on his palms, elbows digging into the wood. The silence in the place was starting to get suffocating. He thought about returning, about setting a record on the magically restored gramophone, and letting the tunes take him where they will, but he didn't want to. Not yet. He wasn't ready to leave the warmth of this broken place, the dim and dingy lighting, the overwhelming scent of alcohol vapours...no, not yet. 

He let himself relax a bit, rolling his shoulder and losing a breath, forcing his mind to focus on the clanking of the cue ball rolling about on the pool table, the odd word flying around the room, and the bored groaning of the metal.fan overhead, when the bartender appeared in front of him with a basket full of chips. 

He slammed the basket down in front of Draco, and his face almost slipped from his hand in the slight tremor that followed. 

“Eat,” said the older man, in unwitting mimicry of a certain werewolf, “you'll feel better.” 

Draco looked down at the greasy food,fat uneven slices of potatoes smelling of meat and whatever leftover broth they had been cooked in, and scowled. It made his stomach turn, just a little bit. He nodded his thanks to the insolent muggle nonetheless, before popping a couple of the pieces of the disgusting food into his mouth. 

It tasted awful, so he popped a couple more in. His fingers itched for the crinkling touch of a cigarette, but he resisted the urge. 

Not yet, he told himself. Not yet. 

As he munched on the deplorable contents of the chips basket, not for the first time, Draco felt oddly grateful for the existence the world he had been raised to hate, to despise…to demean. When everything he knew had turned upside down...this *worthless*, *pathetic*, *powerless* world had shown him kindness. 

Simple, easy kindness. 

It had given him anonymity, it had given him a place to go, it had given him a bar that served cheap liquor and greasy charred potatoes that passed for chips. 

It had given him everything he needed, and hated. Everything he could ever love. 

An odd, fleeting, fragile peace. 

When the door behind him opened once more, Draco paid no attention to it. Well, almost. In a moment of weakness that inspired self loathing, he hoped it was the blasted group of kids who made their way through bars all over this dingy part of the city every week. But the door swung shut, and only silence followed.

Draco sighed, as the closing doors sent a chilly breeze his way. With the flurry of cold October air that brushed him, he felt something else and stiffened. 

It was like the warmth that seeped into cupped hands holding a mug of tea, or the delicate embrace of heat that came with holding a candle close in the cold. A sigh, a touch- so delicate, so worn, so....silken. 

The soft, comforting warmth of magic. 

He sat up straighter, his mind clearing in an almost practised panic. He flexed his arm so his wand slipped off the holster, sliding between his fingers. He held effortlessly still, a deliberate finger almost absently tracing the rim of his glass. 

There was nothing to be afraid of, not really. The war was over. Had been over for a while now. But Draco felt like his battles never ended. Threats came and went. Attacks and ambushes were not uncommon. Curses flew, bodies broke. Life went on. 

Gripping his wand tighter in his hand, he lifted the glass to his lips and sipped. He heard the clip-clip of heels on wood, a call for a drink and then the almost imperceptible thud of a body collapsing on wood. Whoever it was, they hadn't come for him. He loosened his grip, just a smidge. 

Sometimes it was the good ones that came, sometimes the bad. He belonged to neither, he belonged to both. And he had gotten used to living in this in-between. He had gotten used to not cowering in front of things that made him want to cower, and not undermining things that he had always been told were beneath him.   
There was some irony, Draco often thought, in how his cowardice in a war had taught him courage after. How his prejudice in a war had chipped at his biases. 

Leaning his head casually on his arm, he chanced a glance at this stranger. The fact that they hadn't been looking to ambush him only made their appearance at this run down bar that much more bizarre. 

Draco had been coming here for months now, and while the appearance of magical folk in muggle establishments the likes of this watering hole weren't uncommon, The Smaug Den was hardly a haunt of the kind.

It was hardly a haunt of any kind, really. 

So when he caught sight of the unsuccessfully tamed bushy brown hair of the “stranger”, it was only natural that Draco's head would slip off his hand and slam itself unceremoniously into the counter. 

The momentary silence that followed this unfortunate event almost had him disapparating, statute of secrecy be damned. But, gentleman -and one in complete control of his life- as he was, he simply pushed his red face off the counter for the second time that night. Sputtered conversations resumed as they always did, and Draco was not surprised to see a glare shot his way when he turned his face. 

Ah, the sweet taste of nostalgia. 

How many times had he seen those same hazel eyes shoot venom at him across a room?! How many times had he wished he could douse the fire from them?! How many times had this very hatred snared their lives together?! 

Draco almost smiled. Almost. 

A few stools down from him, white-knuckled fingers clasped tight around her glass of beer, was none other than Hermione Jean Granger. 

And she looked very, very cross.


	2. Hermione

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (EDITED)

Tendrils of smoke were beginning to rise from the glass her fingers were curled around, while the condensation slipped under her thumb like beads of sweat. The beer was freezing over- just like she had assumed hell would have before she had to see that face again.

Of all the people in this godforsaken world…. Of all the places in this goddamn city….!!

She gripped her glass tighter, sending cracks crawling through the frozen beer and watched glaring as the man blinked at her, his face reddening and paling at once under her stare.

Still as a rock, Draco Malfoy gulped, staring at her with wide heavy-lidded- intoxicated- eyes, absently pressing a fist to his forehead where he had banged himself earlier. His gaze traveled once from her face to her wand arm- now gripping the frozen glass of beer- to the wall behind her before he turned his head around to face the molding ceiling instead, and downed the glass of amber liquid he had in front of him.

He sat straighter- stiller, if it were possible- but kept his gaze away. He then folded in on himself, putting his back to her, almost doubling over the basket of foul food sitting in front of him.

He wasn't going anywhere, Hermione realized.

She was seething. She hasn't expected to scare him off, no. But it still annoyed her that he had chosen to stay.

Just... _perfect!_ She thought, pulling her hand away from the glass, and reaching for her purse.

Fucking perfect!

She couldn't catch a break! All she had wanted was a moment of peace- a moment to let herself...go, a moment to breathe. A night of quiet drinking, where she could drown the noise inside, and around, in the lapping waves of apple-red wine.

Her day had started well enough, really. Being an officer in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement came with a lot of trouble, but it was the kind of trouble Hermione thrived in.

Yes, they only ever let her work the desk. Yes, they only ever made her speak to the papers and the people. Yes, sometimes it felt a lot like she was just...there. Like she was idle.

The way she saw it, however, she got to have a say - no matter how small- in the making of a world she knew she would be proud to have belonged to one day. And that was enough for her.

That's what she thought, any way. That's what she tried to believe. That's what she told herself every night as she went to bed, every morning as she picked up her purse and her wand….

The reality, as much as she would try to ignore it , was different. They valued her back at the department, sure, but not like she wanted them to. They valued her as they had all once valued Harry. They valued her, not because she was a strong witch, but because she was good PR.

She sighed now, lightly touching her glass, a soft ripple bubbling up the solid surface, turning the beer liquid once more.

She was a representative of a generation that had endured war- that was born into it and that grew up in it- and her face was reassurance. Her twinkling smile on the papers was comfort. Her words in print were solace.

'They're listening to us,’ these gestures said. ‘This is for the better,’ her words consoled. ‘They understand,’ her presence whispered.

They didn't. They possibly couldn't.  

But what else was there to do, really? She couldn't turn away. She couldn't...she couldn't take away what little hope had dared to blossom in her world. She couldn't rebel and risk losing what little say she had.

She was just….stuck.

Idle.

For a while. Forever; It was all starting to seem like the same thing.

And Shacklebolt had thought to remind her of her role in this whole...endeavour today. He wasn't unkind, no. He wasn't even arrogant.

She had been kicking her fins against the way the department was downplaying the threat of ex-Death Eaters and other radical groups now surfacing once more. Now, after seven whole years had passed. And today, the minister had called her in for a personal meeting.

Where he had refused to be commanding and unreasonable.

Far from it, really.

He was being logical. Compassionate. Considerate.

How could you fight something like that?!

She'd stayed back at the department after everyone had left drafting and redrafting memos, press statements- work she had been refusing to do, work she didn't want to do….work she was afraid would lead then down the well worn path of destruction - so many omissions, so many soft, soft words..…lies, lies and so many lies.

Or rather, untruths. Partial-truths, perhaps.

As if there was a difference.

And here she had ended up, in a washed up corner of London, under the roof of a watering hole so decrepit, even the muggles didn't seem to prefer it.

And she had thought for one moment- for one blissful moment- that she could just...be.

Her mistake, really. Her stupid, fucking mistake.

Despite herself, her gaze wandered back to the blonde man still sitting at the bar counter, a little ways down from her, hunched over the basket as if it were a treasure and he, its protector.

Like a hen bending over its egg, maybe.  

It was sort of pathetic, really - with the dark molding wood framing the bent-over form of this broken man as he guzzled glass after glass of cheap whiskey- and that made her feel slightly better. Still, she envied him his ability to not be affected by her presence as she was by his.

There. Another mistake.

Huffing, she jumped off the stool she was sitting on. Her purse still dangled from her shoulder, and for a moment, and one moment alone, she debated leaving. Downing that grimy glass, emptying it all into her growling stomach, turning around and never coming back.

But then she shook her head clear. This was stupid. She wasn't afraid of Malfoy. She didn't give two shits about him, if anything. And she wasn't going to let him ruin her night.

She was prepared to do it by herself, on her own terms, drowning in a bottle of wine and whatever else presented itself to her here.

So she grabbed her glass and sauntered over to the opposite corner of the bar. Here, she was hidden by the shadows and the drunk idiots who seemed to be the worst pool-players on the planet, if the pieces rolling on the table were any evidence.

Here, he was hidden from her, by the bar and the large bartender- Torr, if she remembered right- who seemed to man it.

Here, she could be lost, and forgotten, and no one and everyone and any one.  

The bartender slammed the bottle of wine and a burnt pizza on her table, leaving with a gruff request- which sounded more like an order, really- to call him if she needed something else.

Hermione drew a finger along the curve of the bottle, and suppressed a shudder as she felt a few dust motes still clinging to the glass. Cursing herself, she pulled her wand out and muttered a spell under her breath that left her ensemble of plates and glasses too bright and clean for their surroundings.

Here, she could admit to herself that she was stuck, and here, she could hate the minister and the ministry and everyone who choose to lie to protect......or some bullshit like that.

With a small pout, she examined her handiwork, nibbling at the ends of the pizza that wasn't so burnt after all, and shrugged.

 _Oh, well_ , she thought as she took a sip of the wine from the bottle, _this will have to do_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I know it's been a while...and I don't really know where I'm going with this but I just wanted to write a bit from Hermione's perspective so here it is. Hope you like it! More coming...soon-ish.


End file.
